


priest, soldier, man

by 10redplums



Series: dragons campaign [2]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Wine and Dine, being cute at your crush, canon-typical obsession with death, significant modes of address
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:28:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27683552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/10redplums/pseuds/10redplums
Summary: Armand the grave cleric and the unexpected turns his life takes.
Relationships: player character/npc
Series: dragons campaign [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2018047
Kudos: 1
Collections: Banned Together Bingo 2020





	priest, soldier, man

**Author's Note:**

> Has anyone written fic of Isteval? The man is a DILF, how has this not happened yet. Also, jump to the end notes for spoilers if you want them because god knows people being nervous about things in fics makes me nervous about things in fics

The gravediggers of the Church of the Lonely Mother are trained to prepare and bury the dead, to comfort mourners, to understand grief. From an early age he comes to learn intimately the handle of the spade, the shifting earth, the salt of the living’s tears. The endless hymns and prayers to the living, the dead, the goddess, the soil, the sky, the blood, the flesh. He learns how to clean and dress a corpse. He learns how to dig a grave. He learns how to talk to the living. He learns how to hold a mother, screaming, grieving, bargaining, and how to weather the worst of her fists when he tells them there’s nothing he can do. It’s rare, but it happens. He learns how to worship this aspect of the goddess in all her glory and horror.

As the acolytes grow the people around them live and die, and he is no stranger to grief himself. There are ceremonies, of course, for senior priests. The acolytes are made to watch, not as students but as mourners. It’s rare, but it happens. He wonders who will grieve him as the priest he will become. Presumably there will be more acolytes.

When his mother takes away Jocaste his sister he learns how to grieve someone well and whole and alive.

Absent half of his soul he throws himself into his studies. The callouses on his palms thicken. The motions of digging become second nature to him. Alongside the prayers and platitudes the priests teach the lot of them how to petition the goddess, and how to cup the light of divinity in their hands and burn and heal in turn.

Alongside the lessons of all the life he expects to know his mother sends a tutor who instructs him in ridiculous things such as how to speak, how to walk, how to hold himself, because _she will not be embarrassed by a fool wearing her face._ It’s fine.

He grows into a sharp young man who chooses his name as Armand. This is also fine.

It’s not a surprise to outsiders that the priests of the Lonely Mother are a meditative lot. What does come as a surprise is their patronage of myriad arts, but it probably shouldn’t be. It’s hard, growing up being trained for the dead. Alongside the lessons on their grim work they’re taught to dance, and little expense is spared in teaching them craft. He takes well to crochet. Many of his peers take other, less portable hobbies. But they are taught to dance.

Statistically speaking, at least a few of the dances under the moonlight lead to fervent trysts. This is also fine. Armand tries it a few times, when it seems like a good idea, but usually slips away with the others who don’t have the energy or the inclination. 

  
  


The end of his life happens in Greenest. There are new companions. There is an enormous blue dragon. There is a heartbreakingly amazing archer. There is a duel, between one of his new companions and a blue half-dragon. 

There is the Cult of the Dragon.

The end of his life goes on, for months and months and months. There is Butler, a barbarian with a fascination for cuisine. There is Agni, a fighter mired in his vices and regrets. There is Afhn, a wizard with a dangerously long list of old friends. There is Snow, a ranger with something to prove and an overabundance of kindness. 

There is the Council of Waterdeep.

There is a house with a gate and a garden and guards, and a room all to himself. The nights are quiet, and in the absence of his normal duties as a priest of Sehanine he finds himself building a small garden out of hook and yarn. It’s- nice. It’s nice to have this reprieve, between fighting dragons and cultists and the parade of odd people who seem to have a personal vendetta against Afhn. 

The series of battles and successes has the council sending them further and further out, into more and more danger, proving the adage that the price for being the best is having to be the best. He watches his companions fall again and again and he begs his goddess for strength, for power, for anything and she in her infinite mercy in her infinite cruelty grants his pleas again and again. He falls himself and is brought back more times then he can count, and he wonders who would grieve the soldier he’s becoming. But the threat of the dragon looms and grows greater still even as they gain allies, and there is always more work to be done. 

In the months that pass they grow stronger, more powerful, and despite their efforts they grow more scarred. After the first attack on their home Armand is dissuaded from casting silence on his room to hide his nightmares. After the course of events Agni’s life takes and he screams through the nights they regret it a little, but security takes precedence.

They build an army and gain allies. The dwarven kingdoms and their war machines. The elven kingdoms and their soldiers. Metallic dragons in all their glory. They consort with kings, with demons, with gods. Once, he shakes hands with an advisor in Sir Isteval’s retinue and is met with a long, calculating look, before it turns into a smile and a mouthed “ _I’m the same._ ”

They fight monsters. Beholders. The undead. Chromatic dragons in all their terror. They become monsters. The blood on their hands drips and smears and pools around them until Armand feels like he’ll drown in it. 

The journey is not without its beauties. A sea of ice. A garden that folds in on itself. Flowers the likes of which Armand’s never seen. The majesty of angels on that mountain found nowhere but was truer than truth, that searing light of The Morninglord that had warmed him to his core even as it had burned. 

The softness and strength of a warm and grateful hand clasping his as Sir Isteval expresses his thanks and promises his might, and the satisfaction that _they_ did this. Not his noble mother, not his magnificent sister, not the old men of the church of Bahamut too proud to bend their heads to the work that must be done.

In the stillness of his room he sits, and builds himself a garden, and thinks about a warm and grateful hand, and tries not to choke on the blood.

  
  


The invitation, when it comes, comes for Armand. Not _Armand, Cleric of Sehanine the Lonely Mother, Blade of the Order of the Gauntlet, Envoy of the Council of Waterdeep_ , just. _Armand-_ The lovely thick paper crumples a little in his suddenly-too-strong grip, as he denies ever seeing the name. He lifts the heavy wax seal carefully off, reluctant to break it, and the scent rising from the paper makes him sneeze.

“It’s from Sir Isteval,” he says. Butler makes a noise of agreement; probably recognized it. 

“Wonder what he wants?” Snow says, peeking over his shoulder. “You okay?” Armand hums. It’s a bit of a slog through the flowery language; someone had letter-writing classes. 

“It’s an invitation to dinner.”

“Oooh, does he say what he will be serving? I have heard many good things about the cuisine of Daggerford,” Butler says. Agni shuffles around them; they’re blocking the doorway. 

“He says to come alone.” He’s named a time and place.

“That… sounds like a trap.” He looks at Snow, who’s frowning at the letter, and he shrugs. Butler makes a disappointed noise.

“I mean, you two know where I’m going,” he says. “And if it _is_ a trap, I can teleport back.” Snow keeps frowning at the letter. “I can ask him personally before I go,” he adds, trying to sound gentle. 

Snow gives a disgruntled hum, and Armand folds up the letter. “Come back to us in one piece, got it?” Armand nods.

“ _Sir Isteval, did you send an invitation to dinner at your house? Forgive the suspicion, we’ve been tricked before. You can reply to this message._ ”

“ _Master_ _Armand, is that you? Yes, yes I did, I wanted to invite you to dinner. I hope you’re not busy? This is purely social-_ ”

Armand walks a brisk, bracing lap around the garden.

“ _It would be an honor, Sir Isteval._ ”

“ _It would be my pleasure, Master Armand._ ”

Armand takes another lap, thankful for the cool afternoon air.

The ride to Daggerford takes about half the day. Armand packs an overnight bag and makes a note to look for souvenirs for the others.

He has time to prepare for it. Nobody talks to him on the ride, either not recognizing his face or being turned off by the scowl. He spends the day wandering the streets of Daggerford, sampling delicacies, collecting tales of exotic beasts. He finds books. He finds a state-funded clinic, talks to a doctor. He cleans the dust of the roads off his body. He spends a quiet night in the inn, collecting himself, unraveling and putting himself back together.

The chosen day comes, and he spends it in the inn room in meditation. It dawns on him that he doesn’t know how formal this event will be. He errs on the side of almost-uncomfortable. Bathes early. Takes his piercings out slowly, counting each one. He puts his hair up. He puts his hair down. Puts it up, in a style that’s probably a little outdated because his lessons had only been in his childhood. Spends an hour buttoning and unbuttoning and buttoning himself into his clothes, blue as the night sky and embroidered silver as the moon and stars, before shaking his head. This is ridiculous. This is a social call. It’s Sir Isteval. 

_I will not be embarrassed by a fool wearing my face._

His fingers shake as he does up the many, many tiny buttons. He sings to himself, low, to block out the words bouncing around his skull endlessly. It will be fine. Dinner is dinner is dinner. Sir Isteval had been a forthright man. This is not a trap. It will be nice. He leaves his porcelain mask on the vanity.

The command word for the spell to take him home sits heavy on his tongue all the way through his walk through town.

The sky is dark but the streetlamps are bright, and it’s too late to pass people walking home from work but too early for many revelers. Armand breathes in the scent of blooming jasmine, trying not to delay for too long because it _would_ be rude, but.

There’s a guard at the gate, who lets him through. There’s a gravel path, which lets him up. There’s a servant at the door, who lets him in.

There is Sir Isteval, sitting in a plush, high-backed chair before a fire, dressed in deep purple and shining gold, rising to clasp Armand’s hand and greet him with a broad smile and a firm, warm grip. The smile doesn’t fade at all, and Armand holds still and allows it when Sir Isteval claps a hand on his shoulder. An arm’s instead of a room and several raised platforms besides’ length away, he’s very- handsome. Rugged good looks mellowed with age and maturity, and soft eyes turned molten by the lamplight. This is. Fine. This is fine.

“Master Armand,” he says. “I hope the trip wasn’t too much of an ordeal?” 

“No, Sir,” he says. “It was pleasant enough. Daggerford is lovely,” he adds. 

“Good, good. Come, sit with me. Dinner will be ready in a little while.”

They sit together, by that crackling fire. Sir Isteval is a gracious host who leads him gently through light conversation and listens attentively as much as he talks, and Armand finds himself relaxing by degrees. Their knees brush as Sir Isteval leans forward, engrossed in his story. His eyes sparkle in the light. He asks questions. He laughs at appropriate moments.

Dinner feels like it comes too soon. The table is set, the food laid out. Sir Isteval offers a hand to help him out of the chair and he takes it and it’s as warm as he remembers. 

“Please,” he says, “I feel like we’ve enjoyed each other’s company enough that you can call me Isteval.” The meat is soft, the spices generous, and the wine was probably chosen to complement it all, though Armand had been too young to be taught to drink and not even his mother was that ridiculous. The man is free with his smiles and this close, almost hidden by the close-cropped beard Armand sees he has a dimple on one cheek. He takes a drink.

“As long as you call me Armand,” he says. He tries the shape of Isteval’s name and it’s too odd on his tongue, too used to being just another faceless gravedigger no matter how he tries. But the food is there and Sir Isteval gives him ample room to practice as he himself practices, laughter in his eyes and honey in his voice as he asks again about Armand’s trip and his stay and Sir Isteval’s own performance as a host. 

“It’s been perfect,” he says, and then frowns. “You said in your letter to come alone,” he adds. “At least one of my friends was very disappointed; he wanted to sample the Sword Coast’s cuisine.”

“Ah,” Sir Isteval says, looking away for the first time. “I wanted to thank you personally for restoring my strength and helping me see what I had come to ignore. I had thought myself beyond the Morninglord’s light and beyond the need for his power.” And Armand looks at him for this. The wine has made him flushed. 

“I didn’t- it wasn’t just me on that mountain,” Armand says. “The others fought for you. And I did not take your injury on myself. I am not- I’m-” he clamps down on _nothing_. 

“You led them up that mountain,” he says, shaking his head as he takes Armand’s hand. “You prostrated yourself before my god for me. The others also have my gratitude, of course, and I will do everything in my power to help you, but I thank them as a lord. I- I wanted to thank you as a man.” Armand stares at him. He- can’t. He can't mean- but he’s looking at Armand now and holding his hand more firmly, and Armand has always made up for his lack of knowledge with insight. The command word for the spell sits heavy on his tongue.

But he’s hesitated for too long, and Sir Isteval is withdrawing with an easy smile. “I’ve made you uncomfortable,” he says, giving him space, “I apologize,” and by some miracle and momentary insanity Armand catches his hand. 

“I-” He should’ve taken another drink. His throat is so dry. “I. Is.” Years of tutelage down the drain to the first boy to smile sweetly at Armand. “I- I have to know. Is this...” Is this just gratitude. Heaven forbid, is he doing this _for the war effort._

“I’m quite taken with you,” he says, with a shy grin, impossibly. “I was hoping you felt the same.”

The first syllable presses against his teeth.

“Yes,” he says instead. “I- I think I do.” Inadequate. He steels himself. “I- I welcome. And accept your thanks. As a man.” He looks in Sir Isteval’s direction, wanting him to understand even as he demands answers of himself. What is he doing. What is he thinking. He’s a lord and Armand is just a pawn with no future- He can’t. He _can’t._

Sir Isteval’s surprised expression turns into a smile warmer still than all the ones he’s so far graced Armand with, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and he squeezes Armand’s hand. He tucks back a lock of hair that’s fallen in front of Armand’s face and gives him another impossible smile, and rests his hand gently on the back of Armand’s neck.

“I’m glad,” he says.

The spell sits heavy on his tongue, so heavy he feels like he might choke on it, and he wants nothing more than to use it, than to not have to use it, for Sir Isteval to lean forward and pluck it from his mouth with his molten eyes and his soft mouth and his gentle hands-

From his endless well of insight he pulls Armand forward and he stops, a breath away. 

“Kiss me,” Sir Isteval says. 

The air stills in Armand’s chest as he closes that last distance and kisses him, soft, chaste, clumsy, and then his heart beats again as Sir Isteval cups his cheek in his hand and tilts his head _just so_ and _oh-_

Sir Isteval swallows his breath- he nips at his lip and pours fire down his spine- he pulls Armand closer with the hand still on the back of his neck- he licks into Armand’s mouth and coaxes out a helpless noise and he tastes of the spices they’d used for dinner and Armand has to pull back and laugh and he does, he drops himself back in his chair and laughs and covers his mouth still-tingling, and Sir Isteval is laughing too and running a hand through his hair.

“I- there was going to be dessert,” he says, and Armand laughs and laughs and laughs.

Dessert, apparently, consists of an array of tiny tarts decorated with glazed fruit and Isteval, brazen now, picks up the first one and presses it to Armand’s mouth. He laughs, when Armand catches it. He stops laughing when Armand delicately licks a crumb off his still-outstretched finger and is looking at him, calculating, when Armand finishes savoring the thing and opens his eyes.

Armand picks up a tart and holds it to his lips and Isteval takes it, kissing his fingertips and laughing when his hand shakes.

“Butler really is missing out,” Armand says, and Isteval shakes his head.

“Please don’t mention your colleagues right now,” he says, and Armand laughs and takes another tart. “Come to bed with me.”

Armand _freezes,_ which is miles better than hurling himself out of the chair and across the room. Isteval is blushing, wide-eyed, a hand over his mouth as if he hadn’t expected to say that. 

“Armand, I-” he cuts himself off, as Armand brings the tart to his own mouth and licks a slice of fruit off. He can feel Isteval tracking the motion. He finishes the tart. 

“Ask me again,” he says. 

“Come to bed with me,” Isteval says, putting a hand on Armand’s knee. His palm is blazing hot through the fabric of Armand’s pants. Armand looks at him and wonders if Isteval would grieve the man he’s become.

**Author's Note:**

> spoiler: Dinner is fine, it's just dinner. It's cute, even, or at least I did my best.


End file.
